


Rage Against the Dying of the Light

by 221watson



Series: Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, intimate conversations, references to a case, references to rape/abuse, they'll get there eventually i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:15:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221watson/pseuds/221watson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John struggles after he is invalided home from Afghanistan - with depression, with a tremor, with his limp. In spite of that he strikes up a friendship with Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage Against the Dying of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a line of the poem 'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night' by Dylan Thomas. You can read it here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
> 
> I have, thank everything good in the world, never experienced rape or physical abuse. I've tried to handle this topic as well as possible, but if there is something in this story that bothers you, please let me know and I'll be happy to change it.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

It’s just a poem. Just one line of a poem, and yet it’s been with him for most of his adult life. When he was a teenager, the quote still new and bright like a beautiful thing to be cherished, he’d sworn to himself that he would. Rage against the dying of the light, that is. 

John’s not in the habit of breaking promises. But he has broken this one.

Now there is beauty for him in the dying of the light. Seeing, feeling something so lovely and great and grand dwindle down to ashes and dust is a wonder as much as it is a tragedy.

It’s like he’s disconnected from himself. He’s watching himself stumble downhill, falling without really trying to stop it. As long as he’s watching from outside he can see the beauty of it, the strong and self confident army doctor slowly burning down with a sense of doom, inevitability. 

When he doesn’t feel disconnected it’s different. More like crumbling. There’s no soft, warm glow from a flame, just cold and cracked bits falling into themselves. He doesn’t have the energy to try and hold them together, hold them up. What with? He doesn’t know. He’s not sure he cares anymore.

He sits in his dingy bedsit and stares at the wall for hours on end. It's not like there is anything else to do. He has no purpose anymore. The only thing that comforts him is cleaning his gun - he does it twice a day, now. In the morning, to remind himself that he doesn't have to live to see the end of the day if he can’t bear it. And in the evening, to remember that the gun will be there after he's had a nightmare. Because there are always nightmares. 

When John meets Sherlock Holmes, it feels a bit like staring into the forbidding Afghan sun, knowing that there will be battles to fight and wounds to tend to. It's nothing so romantic as things falling into place. His limp takes a while to vanish completely, even after Sherlock's frankly admirable trick to get him to forget his cane. When he doesn't get a regular adrenaline rush it comes back, creeping up on him slowly and painfully until he's ready to tear something apart. But usually a case comes along before he loses it. For now, Sherlock is the only one who destroys parts of the flat when he can't deal with the inside of his mind. He hopes he can keep it this way.

He remembers the line of the poem in those times, when a case pops up out of nowhere just before he feels like he's going to do something drastic, something incredibly stupid. He's not even sure what that thing would be, be he does know that it wouldn't be pleasant. It's a constant fear. He might lose it. He needs adrenaline and chases after dangerous criminals to keep himself at least somewhat sane, and it's frightening that he depends so much on it. But he promised. 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

\-----------------

There's someone else who might need a reminder, once in a while, to not give up, John thinks. It's only been a couple of months since he's met DI Greg Lestrade for the first time, but in that time they've gone for a few pints at the nearest pub and discussed Sherlock's unlikely antics. He's told Greg about his therapist, and Greg's told him about his divorce. But in the beginning that's all there is - a few shared pints, half intimate conversations in a dimly lit booth of their favourite pub while they watch a match and argue about which sport is better, football (Greg) or rugby (John). They never manage to agree, but it's much more fun to fight about it anyway. 

It's a comfortable friendship. Greg’s a bit rough around the edges, and sometimes John feels like there are more than a few jagged and cracked pieces clinging to his friend, but he doesn't ask. It's not his place to ask. And Greg never asks about Afghanistan, either. They leave the gaping wounds untouched, gently brush a finger over the scabbed over ones and the scars sometimes. But they don't rage. The light isn't dying, not yet. Slowly burning down, maybe, growing weaker on bad days, but still flickering. Still alive.

A case it what it takes to change things. Of course it would be; it's only ever cases that make a difference these days. There's been an abduction, a young girl kidnapped by her abusive father because he's finally completely lost his mind. It's a race against time; they have no idea what he's going to do to her, and they also have no idea where he's dragged her. Hours are used up painfully fast, far too much coffee is consumed, and they are all professional. There's no time to panic or wonder what is happening to the victim. John can only hope that she has something to cling to, that she'll hang on to the flame and not let go no matter what is happening. 

Eight far too long hours later they finally get to her. She's beaten bloody and half naked, blood and come dripping out between her thighs, and Gregory Lestrade is the one who takes care of her. Some time goes by before he goes close enough to touch her, and then he does it only with a blanket as a barrier between them. He talks calmly to her, but he doesn't try to soothe her. It would be useless, John knows. What surprises him is that Greg seems to know as well. He knows his friend hasn't been specially trained to deal with abuse and rape victims, and yet he does it as well as is possible. John refuses to give it too much thought.

They take her to the hospital. Questioning can wait until the next day; Greg waves anyone daring to suggest differently off with an authoritative command and a warning gaze.

John can't quite say why - at least he doesn't want to think about the why - but he stays with Greg while the doctors take care of the girl long after the other officers and Sherlock have vanished. The hard plastic chairs are uncomfortable and John can feel his back starting to ache, but he doesn't complain. Greg is staring at the sickly white wall opposite, rubbing a hand over his face every so often when exhaustion threatens to become too much and his eyelids start to droop.

John gets up to get them coffee. When he comes back and hands the paper cup over Greg gives him a grateful nod and a weak attempt at a smile. Briefly squeezing his friend's shoulder John sits down again and settles in to wait. Vicky, the victim, does not have anyone, no family or friends that are going to be waiting for her. The least they can do is stay and be there, even if there's not much they can do to make things better. 

"You handled it really well, you know," John says quietly, looking down at the horrible, far too hot coffee in his hands. "Could've done with someone like you when it happened to me." He's not quite sure why he says it, especially there and then, but it feels like the only thing they can talk about and this is better than not talking at all, silence eating away at them bit by bit until there's nothing but chaos in their minds and they are hurting from old wounds and new ones and the ones yet to come. 

The look Greg gives him is surprised, but he looks grateful to have something to talk about, even if it's a grim, painful thing. For both of them, probably, if John's assumptions are even partially correct. The DI looks down at his hands, laced together around his cup, and smiles grimly. "Learned how to do it the hard way. Takes one to know one, eh?"

John nods, because it probably does. After his own rape - and isn't that a terrible thing to say? His rape, like he'd talk about his flat, his friends, not something that had been done to him against his will and it had hurt, his body had been sore and bleeding and his mind had been much the same, only the wounds were deeper there, still not healed, still not forgotten, as if they ever could be - it hadn't been difficult to spot it in other people. It was the same with depression, really. When you've felt something like that you can't help but notice the blank look in others, can't help but feel that air of not caring even though they try so very desperately to keep it hidden, keep it inside where it eats away at them until nothing is left.

"Least we can do is try to help others through it," Greg says softly next to him, shaking his head wearily. John hums, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning back in the damned uncomfortable chair. "If we can," he agrees, ignoring the burning feeling on his tongue. It's nice to have a reminder of the real world before he gets lost in his own mind. Destruction lurks there, waiting. "God knows I can't deal with my own shit at times," he adds, flexing his hand and looking down at it. There's no tremor now; of course there isn’t. This is dangerous, talking about it, thinking about it. In a way his therapy sessions every week are the most dangerous things to happen to him, more dangerous than chasing serial killers over London's rooftops. The serial killers, John thinks, are way more fun. 

He can feel Greg's eyes on him and looks up, meeting his gaze. Neither of them says anything - there is nothing to be said. In moments like this the light of the flame dims, flickers. It's not enough to smother it, though. And with Greg looking at him like that he's once again determined to do anything it takes to keep it alight, and to keep Greg's alight with him. Oh, he would rage. If he is good at anything then it’s raging, and soldiering on. And that is exactly what he'll do. 

He doesn't have to ask Greg if they're in this together. Their gaze says everything there needs to be said - they'll rage against the dying of the light. 

Reaching over, John takes Greg's hand and squeezes.


End file.
